


Variations on: Shock

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Art, Literary Reference, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-29
Updated: 2006-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to the following: an abstract conversation on the nature of art, using any of the genres that the characters are familiar with (painting, acting, directing, poetry, Harry's beloved Russian symphonies, whatever.) [Request by <a href="http://prettypattisue.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://prettypattisue.livejournal.com/"><b>prettypattisue</b></a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variations on: Shock

      "What are you reading?" Viggo's voice almost startled Harry, but not quite, and he flipped down the corner of his page with an indulgent smile before facing the fully-costumed actor.

      "The Philosophy of Andy Warhol. Have you read it?"

      "Awhile ago. You like it so far?" Viggo asked, lowering himself into a cloth-backed chair next to Harry's.

      "It's not bad. He's rather flighty, yeah?" Harry pointed out.

      "He is that." Viggo smiled, turned to Harry with his chin in one hand, elbow propped on the chair's arm. "But then, so am I."

      Harry laughed, nodded in concession, and set his book down in his lap. "So I've heard. But you're the Renaissance Man, are you not? It's a high honour."

      Viggo shuddered and frowned. "Not really. I'm sick of that title. The best art, after all, is almost always highly criticised, or better yet, completely ignored, until the creator's death. Too much of a reputation and you can't be all that good."

      "A little morbid, don't you think?" Harry replied with a smile.

      "Perhaps," Viggo replied vaguely, returning the smile. "Who's your favourite artist, then?"

      "Visual, or…?"

      "Anything. Visual, music, dance, I don't care."

      "Prokofiev, then," Harry replied immediately.

      "All right, fine. Prokofiev. What do you know about his life?" Viggo asked.

      "Well, he was born in the Ukraine. Studied in St. Petersburg, lived in the States for a few years, then Paris. He wrote ballets and film scores, and I'll have you know, was quite well-known within his life," Harry pointed out with a smug smile.

      "Didn't he end up having to renounce his own work to the Soviet Union in the end, though?" Viggo pointed out.

      "Yeah… but give the man a break. It was Stalin!" Viggo just smiled. "Well what's the point, then? If you claim that all glory comes after death, what's the point of art?"

      "It's not about the artist, Harry. It's about the work. When I paint, or take photographs, it's not that I do it for myself." Viggo paused a moment. "Well, that's not strictly true. I do what suits me, and if I don't like something, I won't do it. But once I start a piece, it has a life of its own. I let the art tell its own story… that's the whole point, in my opinion."

      "You don't think that art is a reflection of the artist, though? It seems to me that all good art is essentially a mirror…" Harry argued.

      "No," Viggo objected. "Bad art is a mirror. A true artist should be able to colour his work with his own life, but art shouldn't imitate life exactly. The artist must be able to create that which his brush dictates, or his pen, or his instrument. The art takes on a life of its own, much more powerful than the lowly artist."

      "Sydney," Harry murmured, his eyes flitting over to where Pete was instructing the hobbits on a scene.

      "Excuse me?" Viggo asked, confused. "What does Australia have to do…"

      "No, no. Sir Phillip Sydney. Mimetic and didactic… never mind. It's just what you said, about art imitating life. It's a classic debate, you know. Does art imitate life, or the other way around?" Harry proposed.

      "Well if life imitated art, we'd all be running around with big people and little people and swords and arrows," Viggo pointed out with a cheeky grin, saluting Harry as he was pulled away to shoot a scene. Harry just shook his head and went back to his book.

     

     

      "What about when you're directing?" Viggo asked, standing behind Harry's make up chair at the end of the day. Harry smiled in the mirror at him, amazed as always at the actor's ability to pick up on the thread of a previous conversation three hours later. "If life imitates art, then how do you mould a scene? Wouldn't you need some sort of cue?"

      "I don't think about it that much," Harry responded, honestly. "I mean, any sort of art is at least 85% instinct, I think. You create based on the moment, one moment, and later you give the audience a right to respond. It's why the act of creating a work of art is so… vulnerable."

      Viggo was silent for a moment, scratching his bearded chin, apparently lost in thought. "You think it's mostly instinct?"

      "Yeah… I mean you should know that, judging from the way you act. You internalize your character so well you don't _have_ to think about how Aragorn might act. You just do," Harry explained.

      "Okay. Well in that case… I mean if it's all instinct, and all based on the moment, then who's to say I can't just dictate the moment? I mean why don't I just do something completely unexpected, capture it in a work of art, and then give the audience, as you put it, 'a right to respond?' If that's the theory, then art is imitating life, but then I suppose, if you're correct, life would then imitate art, for the audience would be expected to have a reaction to said work of art, perhaps creating an imitation of the original moment. Maybe a thousand new 'moments' would be created, in fact, like the original but different, mutated replicas of what was originally depicted."

      Harry just smiled, listening patiently as Viggo theorized. "Why don't you just give it a go, mate? Best way to learn is by doing." And then, Viggo shocked him soundly by nodding, standing stone still for a moment, and then taking Harry completely by surprise as one leg swung over Harry's lap, throwing the makeup artist off her game as Viggo leaned in and kissed Harry soundly. A moment, maybe two, and then it was gone, and Viggo was hurrying out of the trailer as quickly as he came. Harry just grinned, and shook his head as if to clear it. Crazy bugger, that man was. But he had beaten Harry at his own game.

 

_Three months later_

      In the makeshift studio Viggo had set up in his own home, twelve people stood, glasses of chardonnay in hand, studying a painting. Displayed simply on an easel, not yet framed, it was an abstract work—a spongy forest of green, interrupted only by a shocking flare of pink and a rotund blob of blue, so thick it stood out from the canvas.

      The guests at Viggo's impromptu dinner party spoke amongst themselves, considering the possible meanings of the work. Clearly, it was some sort of symbolism, that much was agreed on, but no one knew for what, exactly. Perhaps the blue blob was a heartbeat, and the pink blood? Or maybe it was an abstract representation of a flower in the jungle. Perhaps the green background was what held the most significance, some sort of environmentalist message that decried the shocking post-industrial colours of bright blue and neon pink, marring an otherwise natural setting. It was only Harry who, sipping his wine, simply smiled in silent appreciation of the work, coming closest in his guess to its true meaning.

      It was Harry, after all, who had long since finished filming, and it was Harry who was nonetheless invited back for this party by Viggo, who insisted that Harry just had to see this work. And it was Harry who, to everyone else's surprise, found himself back-to-chest with Viggo, who casually slunk his arms around Harry's waist from behind as if no one else were there, propping his chin on Harry's shoulder and whispering in his ear.

      "So, what do you think?"

      Harry just grinned, and turned his head so that his lips were just touching the corner of Viggo's mouth. "It's… shocking," Harry replied, and Viggo grinned. "As was the original moment," Harry continued, conveying his recognition of the painting's subject. Viggo grinned wider, and turned his own head, speaking against Harry's own moist lips now.

      "Shall we… create a parallel moment, then?" he continued, eyes sparkling. "A variation on the original theme, of the same inspiration yet fundamentally different in its structure?"

      Harry just grinned, and murmured against Viggo's lips before sealing them with his own. "I love it when you talk dirty to me."

      A single wine glass dropping, shattering to the floor and distributing bits of glass and drops of liquid over the actors' shoes as Dominic cursed profoundly, was only the first signal that the representation had succeeded and the original meaning had been preserved. Truth, after all, lies fundamentally in beauty.


End file.
